Just Back: an enchanting river journey in China

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The straw-hatted boatman looks somewhat dubious when my husband and I arrive at the busy Yulong River jetty with our 18-month-old son in a back carrier. He is clearly unwilling to allow the tenacious flock of rival boatmen to claim us, however, so eventually he barks a few words in the direction of an older woman nearby.

The woman sports a more impressive straw hat, plus a bulging money pouch that marks her out as a decision-maker. Her expression is hard to read, in part owing to her supersized, fake-designer sunglasses. At least, I assume they are fake. Boatman-to-be gestures at our son and shrugs. Designer sunglasses looks at our son and shrugs. Husband and I shrug and smile. Then, with a final shrug and a gracious wave of her arm, the lady signals her favour and the boatman herds us towards the river.

Yangshuo has already enchanted us with its improbable, incredible landscape. China’s Guangxi province is renowned for the karst mountains that thrust out of the verdant farmland in their thousands. The topography of the region has inspired endless Chinese scroll painters with its pointed limestone hills and undulating rivers; and every guidebook we’ve read states that a raft trip down the Yulong at Yangshuo is unforgettable.

The reason for the boatman’s initial hesitation soon becomes clear, however. The rafts are literally, well, rafts: a pile of bamboo poles lashed into a roughly rectangular shape using an untidy mixture of rope and wire. In deference to passenger comfort, two lawn chairs have been tied on to each craft, with a multicoloured beach umbrella affixed between. The overall effect is cheerful, quaint and – for those travelling with toddler in tow – rather alarming.

Hubby and I have a hurried discussion about the river (shallow and popular with swimmers) and our swimming skills (proficient) before descending the steps to oulur waiting craft. Except that it’s not our craft. Ours is apparently somewhere in the middle of the bobbing mass of bamboo rectangles. Helpful boatmen assist us with dry, leathery hands as we wobble our way across the moving walkway of rafts. Our son studiously ignores the gapped smiles and waves directed at him – he’s no diplomat. The husband and I settle into the lawn chairs, boy on one lap, carrier and backpack on the other. Fingers crossed.

From the water, the mountains rise up in lumpy magnificence in such number that those in the distance are little more than purple haze. The shade provided by the looming rock is a delicious treat after the heat of the open, farm-spotted valley. Stunted trees cling to the limestone and coat the craggy peaks in a layer of emerald green. Ahead, the water is mirror-calm, reflecting the nearest peaks with sparkling clarity. Our son is entranced by the raft; and our boatman seems entranced by our son’s ability to sit still. Shy, relieved smiles are exchanged as our little rectangle glides gently downstream.

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